


The Ballad of the Black Bear

by lady_eliot_writes



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fade to Black, Fix-It of Sorts, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier writes songs about other Witchers, Jealousy, Junod of Belhaven, M/M, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, and Geralt does NOT like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22221172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_eliot_writes/pseuds/lady_eliot_writes
Summary: In which Jaskier writes a song about another Witcher and Geralt can't take it."The song was not familiar - not really. But something about it tugged on threads of his memory.It hit him like a bolt from a crossbow. He didn’t recognize the singer, but he would know the lyricist anywhere. The woman was playing a song written by Jaskier, Geralt was sure of it.His blood ran cold. The song was clearly about a Witcher. But just as clearly, it was not about him."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 85
Kudos: 2376
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier was in a tavern in Brugge when he first heard a patron whisper “again?” under his breath to a drinking companion. He had just launched into one of his more popular ballads about his time traveling with the White Wolf, and the question made him cringe. He had known for a while that it was coming. It had been several months since he had debuted a new song or a new tale about his adventures. But his well of stories had run dry, and writing anything new about Geralt was like prodding at a fresh bruise. He hadn’t written anything since that afternoon on the mountainside. Instead, he played through a cycle of older songs, once favourites at taverns like this - Toss a Coin to your Witcher, The Fishmonger’s Daughter, The Ballad of the White Wolf. The songs that once made him a household name along the King’s Road were now being sung in every tavern by every two-bit bard worth his salt. A few more months of nothing new, no new epics or tales, and Jaskier would find himself irrelevant, not even able to scrounge up enough coin for a decent bed. 

At first, he thought it was that he had stayed still for too long, working out of the same town for several weeks. But he began feeling the sentiment rippling through taverns more and more often as he traversed the main roads, roaming north, away from Nilfgaard. The stirrings of war down south made it a place he would rather avoid, not much coin to be made singing in the taverns of farmers who were marching off to war. He was north of Cintra now, hoping that he might skirt the rising conflict entirely. He idly thought of continuing to Cidaris, perhaps catching a boat to Skellige where his ballads might still have novelty. It took much longer for stories to cross the sea to the islands than it did for them to travel on land.

It was in a town a half days ride past Maribor where he heard a table of men loudly laughing and making bets. He sidled closer to their table, eager to hear what had the men so riled up. They argued in raised voices about whether or not the Witcher riding through town would survive the contract he had accepted. One man was particularly sure that the Alghoul nest plaguing a local cemetery would be too much for a single man, even a Witcher, to handle. 

His heart beat painfully in his chest as he immediately thought of Geralt. 

Another man slammed his mug down on the table, loudly disagreeing, sure that if anyone could kill a nest of Alghouls, it would be the infamous Black Bear. 

Jaskier let out a breath he had not known he was holding. 

So no Geralt. Probably for the best, he thought. He had paid for his room upstairs for several more days and it wouldn't do to sneak out in the middle of the night, running away in the dark, tail tucked between his legs.

In a stroke of genius, he thought that perhaps he could ply the other witcher with food and drink in exchange for details of his adventures, find some fresh material for his act.

He sat down at the table with the men, ignoring their spluttering when he invited himself to their conversation. He inquired about the details of the contract and determined that the Witcher would need to return to this pub to collect his reward. Simple, Jaskier thought. He would stake out the table beside the bar and wait for the man to return. 

The fire had burned down to embers by the time the door whipped open, letting in an icy blast of wind. A hulking shadow filled the door frame, medallion glinting in the light of the dying fire. The man did not stalk so much as lumber towards the bar. His dark wet hair was cropped short, cut unevenly, likely with a knife and no mirror. His face was heavily bearded and sported a thick scar that spanned nearly hairline to jaw on the right side of his face. The Witcher had a crossbow casually resting against his shoulder, and two swords strapped across his back. His armor was heavy, thicker than Geralt's. The man did not move with nearly as much grace, but he was bigger, both in bulk and height. A bear instead of a wolf.

Jaskier slid out of his seat, rising to his full height and rolling back his shoulders, attempting to convey much more confidence than he was feeling. He stepped into the path of the giant man and met his glowing orange eyes.

“Perhaps you would join me for a hot meal, Witcher. My treat of course.” The large man grunted and made a move to step around the bard. 

Ah, so it is a witcher thing, Jaskier thought. Jaskier reached out, catching the heavy forearm of the other man. 

“I insist. Please, sit down, and I’ll fetch you something to eat. Your reward will still be waiting when we finish.” 

The giant Witcher looked the bard up and down and bared his teeth into what could reasonably be described as a smirk, and slid into the proffered chair. Jaskier returned with a pitcher of ale and a platter of meat and potatoes and slid it across the table in front of the witcher. He pulled out a quill and some paper. 

“Now, from the beginning, if you don’t mind” 

\---

Geralt of Rivia was covered from head to toe with swamp water and Selkiemore guts. He held a hand tight against a gash in his side and pushed through the door of the tavern. He stalked quickly into the shadowy back corner of the tavern and collapsed into the seat, with his back against the wall. He gestured to the young woman behind the bar and she brought him a large bowl of stew and a flagon of ale, her nose wrinkling at the smell of him as she neared his table. 

She set the food and ale down heavily, and quickly backed away, making her way back behind the bar. Geralt sighed, peeling back his topmost layer and prodding gently at the gash. It was still sluggishly seeping blood, but it was slowing. Without tending it would scar, but what was one more scar to a Witcher. 

From the front of the tavern, the sound of a lute being tuned drifted through the air. Geralt’s shoulders tensed. After a beat, a woman’s reedy voice rose to accompany the lute, and the air punched out of Geralt’s lungs in a heavy gust. He listened for a moment. The song was not familiar - not really. But something about it tugged on threads of his memory. 

It hit him like a bolt from a crossbow. He didn’t recognize the singer, but he would know the lyricist anywhere. 

The woman was playing a song written by Jaskier, Geralt was sure of it. 

His blood ran cold. The song was clearly about a Witcher. But just as clearly, it was not about him. The Ballad of the Black Bear. Geralt knew of him of course. Junod. A mountain of a man, trained at Haern Caduch. He was a loner but not nearly as taciturn as Geralt. He was also known for leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake, men and women alike. 

Something hot and ugly flared through Geralt as he thought about Jaskier and Junod sharing a room on the road or sleeping together under the stars. He saw red as his mind unhelpfully conjured up an image of Jaskier helping Junod out of his armor, hands gently searching the giant man’s body for injuries and competently tending him with skills taught to him by Geralt. 

The thought of Jaskier helping the other man bathe turned his stomach, and he was no longer hungry. He rose silently, dropping a few coins on the table and pushing through the tavern towards the bard. Her fingers stuttered across the strings as her voice died in her throat at the look on his face. 

“Where is he,” Geralt ground out. “The bard who wrote that song.” 

The woman’s eyes were wide and afraid, and it reminded Geralt of how people looked at him before. When he was the Butcher of Blaviken. 

“Headed for Cidaris last I heard” she squeaked, “we crossed paths not a month ago.” 

“Mm,” Geralt grunted, turning on his heel and heading for the stable. He told himself he was worried about Jaskier’s safety, and all the hazards that came with traveling with a witcher. As he swung up on roach and rode out of town, he struggled to get the image of Jaskier rubbing healing salve into the Black Bear’s naked arse out of his mind.

\--

Jaskier was halfway through the Ballad of the Black Bear when the tavern door slammed open. He looked up at the noise and froze at a familiar sight. His fingers twitched, pulling a discordant noise from his lute and his voice broke over the next note. 

He rose, holding the lute out in front of him like a shield, as Geralt of Rivia stared at him for a long moment before meaningfully glancing at the bard, up the stairs and back to the bard. He shook out his cloak, turning to head up the stairs, before throwing a last look over his shoulder to Jaskier, who was still frozen in place 

“Pardon me good people - I have to - I must - I…”

Jaskier trailed off, shaking his head and pushing through the grumbling crowd to follow Geralt up the stairs. He left his lute case filled with tonight’s earnings, the coin no longer seeming so important. 

He was barely through the door of the room he had rented for the week before he is slammed against the door frame, Geralt snarling in his face. The light glinted dangerously off his sharp canines, and his forearm pressed into Jaskier’s collarbone uncomfortably hard as he leaned into the smaller man’s space. 

“What were you thinking” Geralt growls 

“Well Geralt, nice to see you too. Lovely manners as always.” Jaskier said, feigning casual. 

“Are you that desperate to die?” Geralt spat, teeth grinding so hard they creaked under the force. 

“So desperate for fame that you prance into danger with any big strong Witcher that rolls through town?” 

Jaskier flinched, which Geralt took as a sign of guilt. He snarled and pushed closer. Jaskier looked down, away from Geralt’s narrowed eyes, and curled lip. He took a deep breath, and met Geralt’s glare. 

“What gives you the right to come here and say that?” Jaskier’s voice was quiet, but it did not shake. “After everything you said to me.” 

It was Geralt’s turn to flinch, he recoiled as if Jaskier had spat in his eye, shifting his weight onto his back foot. Jaskier pushed his advantage, bringing his arms up to shove the Witcher in his broad chest. Geralt swayed slightly where he stood. 

“You think you get to have a say in who I spend my days with after you so carelessly threw me aside? Is that it?” Jaskier’s nostrils flared, and he shoved Geralt again, harder. Geralt took a half step back and took a deep angry breath. 

“You. Were. Safe.” he ground out. “And now you’re shacking up with the next death wish that rolls through town.” 

Jaskier went totally still, his eyes blazing. 

“What did you say to me?” Jaskier said, his voice measured and cold.

The silence stretched between them, a tense thing. Jaskier laughed once, a humorless exclamation, tinged with bitterness. 

“Shacking up,” Jaskier said flatly. “That’s what this is? Suddenly I’m someone else’s bard and you can’t handle it?” 

Geralt surged towards him, crashing them both back into the wall. His eyes glowed brighter and for a moment he seemed to vibrate with fury. 

“You are not his.” Geralt roared at him, slamming his hands flat on either side of Jaskier’s head, rattling the entire upper floor of the tavern. Downstairs, the music screeched to a halt. 

“Not his?” Jaskier narrowed his eyes and sneered at Geralt. “Well then, whose am I?” he spat.

Geralt growled louder, the wood creaking under his hands. He moved so quickly, he was almost a blur, tangling his hands roughly into the hair at the nape of the bard’s neck and leaning bodily into him. 

“Mine.” he breathed, before crushing his mouth against Jaskier’s and crowding impossibly closer. IT was not a gentle kiss, or romantic. It was bruising and rough, with too much teeth, Geralt biting and sucking and pressing against and in, in, in like he was trying to climb inside Jaskier and leave his mark.

Jaskier groaned, hands scrabbling for purchase, reaching out for a lifeline to hold onto something, anything. His hands found the Witcher’s shirt, tucked loosely into his tight leather pants, and fisted in the material. 

Geralt broke away from the bard’s mouth. Trailing hot, wet kisses down the bard’s jaw, stopping to bite and suck a mark into the soft flesh where the neck and the jaw met. Jaskier gasped and pulled Geralt closer by his hips, grinding against the other man. 

“Yours eh?” He huffed out a breathy laugh, that choked off into a moan. “Why don’t you prove it?” 

Geralt grabbed the other man by the ass, hauling him up and into the Witcher’s arms. Jaskier’s long, surprisingly long, legs wrapped as if by instinct around his hips, still bucking against him, looking for friction. Geralt spun them around and backed them towards the bed. He tossed Jaskier gracelessly onto the bed with a wicked smile, his sharp teeth and wild orange eyes making him look every bit the wolf he was. 

“Oh, I plan on proving it.” he purred. “Over, and over, until you can’t walk and you don’t remember the name Junod of Belhaven.” 

Jaskier smirked. In the morning, he would explain to Geralt that he and the Black Bear had never traveled together, merely shared a meal and some stories. But for now, he had a Wolf in his bed, and he was going to make the most of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't kill me but we're still fading to black here. the story does what the story wants and it wanted to talk about feelings.

Geralt laid on his back, arms folded underneath his head. His half-closed glowing eyes examined the beams of the ceiling as he listened to Jaskier’s heartbeat to return to normal. Jaskier let out a satisfied groan, hands coming up to scrub at his face, before rolling onto his side to look at the Witcher. 

“So that was new,” Jaskier hummed, reaching out to idly trace circles in the other man’s chest hair. 

“Hm,” Geralt grunted in reply. His eyes slipped further closed at the gentle touch. 

“Hm,” Jaskier parroted, pitching his voice low to match the Witcher’s. “I’m Geralt and I can’t talk about my feelings, I can only grunt.” 

“Witcher’s don’t have feelings.” Geralt replied automatically, low voice rumbling in his chest.

“Uh-huh,” Jaskier snorted loudly. “I can’t decide whether the lack of feelings was most apparent when you stared deep into my eyes while your dick was in me, or when you rode all through the night to find me because I was singing a song about someone else.” 

Geralt growled lowly in warning. 

“No, you know what, I think it was when you tucked me in after sex.” Jaskier faux pondered, finger tapping rhythmically on his chin. 

“I did not,” Geralt said, rolling his eyes. Jaskier hummed. 

“These blankets must exist in the same universe as your feelings then because you seem a little foggy about which things do and do not exist.” 

Geralt shoved Jaskier sending him flailing backward out of bed. He hit the ground with a loud thud and groaned dramatically. 

“Now Geralt, is that any way to treat a man who just had his mouth on your cock?” 

Geralt snorted. Jaskier huffed and shot upright. He theatrically started gathering his clothes, haughtily turning up his nose. 

“Truly, I am unappreciated in my time,” He said. “If this is how you’re going to be, good luck securing a repeat performance. I’ll have you know I’m in very high demand.” 

Geralt lunged across the bed, looping an arm around Jaskier, and pulling him back until he was firmly held with his back against Geralt’s chest. Jaskier squawked indignantly and Geralt huffed out a laugh against his shoulder. 

“You’re not going anywhere.” 

“Hmm, is that so?” Jaskier wiggled slightly in the embrace, partially to test the hold, and partially to get comfortable. “Last I heard, you were eager to be rid of me.” 

Geralt’s arms tightened around him. Jaskier’s eyes went to the floor, fingers idly tracing a thickly corded muscle in the Witcher’s forearm. It was a sore spot for both of them. Geralt sighed. 

“I didn’t mean it,” he said carefully. “But I was wrong to say it. You deserve better than that, better than-” 

“Enough of that,” Jaskier cut him off, turning in his hold. He looked at the Witcher for a long moment. His eyes glowed slightly orange in the dying light of the fire and Jaskier hesitated slightly before reaching a gentle hand up to cup his jaw. 

“What we deserve doesn’t matter in this world,” He laughed bitterly. “We just have to treasure the things we have when we have them and try not to spend all of our time mourning the things we’ve lost.” 

“When did you get so wise, bard?” Gerald asked, moving to gently press his forehead against Jaskier’s. 

Jaskier smiled sadly and closed his eyes. 

“I’ve had a lot of lonely days and nights to mourn lost things,” he said quietly. “Bards are romantic souls, not well suited to being alone.” 

Geralt frowned, the ugly feeling that caused him to ride Roach all through the night to Cidaris returning in a hot wave.

“Well you certainly saw to that,” he said, voice clipped, tension in his shoulders. 

Jaskier’s brows drew together before he remembered the chain of events that had led them to where they currently were. 

“Not that it’s any of your business, but all we shared was a pitcher of ale and an evening in the tavern.” Jaskier said with a fond smile on his face. “We didn’t even share a road out of town, as he was headed South.” 

Geralt had the grace to look slightly sheepish. Jaskier laughed at him. 

“That’s right big guy,” Jaskier said, eyes glittering with mischief. “You rode all this way to stake your claim for no reason.” 

Geralt growled and lowered his head to nip at the bruise he had left on Jaskier’s throat. 

“I can think of plenty of reasons,” he said before kissing his way back up the long, pale column of the bard’s throat. 

“Does one of those reasons end in me getting fucked again?” Jaskier asked breathlessly. “Because I could get behind that reason.” 

Geralt huffed what could loosely be described as a laugh against Jaskier’s jaw. 

“Mm,” Geralt hummed, “I think you’ll find I’m the one behind-”

“Was that a joke?” Jaskier gasped, “Are you drunk? Do you have a fever?” 

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“No Geralt, I’m not kidding, are you sick?” Jaskier continued, “Are you dying?”

Geralt rolled on top of him, pinning him and grinding his hips down meaningfully. 

“Not dying then,” Jaskier groaned. “Alive. Very alive.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes, before sliding down the bed and taking Jaskier into his mouth, effectively shutting up the bard’s rambling, and proving just how alive he was.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle, this is my first fic in probably 3 years, and I've never even gotten this close to writing smut before. If there is interest I may make my first foray into it with a second chapter??


End file.
